


Always Short on Time

by QueenoftheNile



Category: Agent Pendergast Series - Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child
Genre: (I don't know how to tag things), Alternating Perspective, Art Theft, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Investigation, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Slow Burn, big case, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2019-10-14 04:28:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17501570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenoftheNile/pseuds/QueenoftheNile
Summary: Pendergast is undercover in a coffee shop, being monitored by the higher-ups, but damn if he's gonna let this case slip by him. While working this gig however, he encounters a grumpy detective and boisterous reporter, both following the same case. Though the two seem not to get along, Pendergast is certain he could benefit from both of their support and thus devises he must help them to see eye to eye.





	1. Vincent D'Agosta

Vincent glanced fervently at his watch, as he hurried down the street.

 

The Captain had been on his ass since the day before to get a set of reports filed, and he’d finally finished but was left only ten minutes to run for lunch before a meeting.

 

He’d decided to save himself the time a full and proper lunch would take, and instead settle for coffee to satiate his quickly exhausting body’s need for sustenance.

 

Recently transferred across town, he’d only noticed one coffee shop that wasn’t a goddamned Starbucks en route to work the previous morning.

 

Naturally, the Lieutenant hadn’t left work since that time.

 

He breezed through the doors of the cutesy shop and made his way hurriedly to the counter.

 

Luckily for him, the shop was remote enough; only a handful of patrons were scattered about, and there was no line.

 

There was no one standing by at the counter when he reached it, and Vincent’s eyes traveled to a barista absently cleaning a dish as he stared out the window.

 

“Excuse me?” He tried to sound as polite as possible, despite the resting irritation he felt at the last few days affairs.

 

The barista quickly turned to him, and Vincent was immediately stricken by pale blue eyes, piercing in the fashion they seemed to scan and evaluate him.

 

Then a small, polite smile spread across the man’s lips and he stepped up to the counter.

 

“How may I help you?” He asked in a faint Southern drawl.

 

Vincent blinked, trying to find his voice under the intense gaze. “Americano. Large.” He managed, hand drawing to his back pocket to remove his wallet.

 

The man gave a slight nod, punching something into the register and checking Vincent out.

 

“Name?” He asked, drawing out a cup and sharpies.

 

“Vincent.” The Lieutenant returned quickly. 

 

The barista nodded as he turned to make the drink, and Vincent couldn’t help but drop his gaze along the lithe figure.

 

He moved with a sort of easy, calculated, graceful air that the detective was drawn to.

 

The man turned back to him, holding his drink, pale blond hair almost luminescent outlined against the broad window, giving him an almost angelic air.

 

It wasn’t until the barista cleared his throat that Vincent realized he must have been staring.

 

In his outstretched hand was Vincent’s coffee.

 

The detective took it quickly, giving what he hoped came across as a grateful smile and a nod, and hastily turned away to head back to work.

  
  


The young Lieutenant had a hard time keeping his attention on topic at his meeting, the coffee cup he fiddled with idly in his hands a consistent reminder of the strange man he’d met at the coffee shop.

 

He decided to drop by again when he was done at work.


	2. William Smithback Jr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we are briefly introduced to Bill Smithback.

Bill took a sharp elbow to the side and dropped is arms protectively in the overstuffed crowd around the town hall.

 

The mayor had been waxing poetic about all these changes he was going to make when elected, and now, a week after said election, he'd arranged a press conference to tell the people how exactly he planned to carry through.

 

The reporter stood on his toes, a bitter feeling welling in his chest when he saw the ginger hair of Bryce Harriman sticking out of the crowd much nearer the building and with an advantageous height allowing him to peer over the crowd.

 

The whole affair was really taxing Bills patience; he'd been here all morning - hot, sweating, and much too crowded for his comfort - and Bryce had still managed to beat him here.

 

Ducking his head, Bill began to maneuver and elbow his way through the crowd, until he stood only a few feet behind Bryce.

 

A muscular woman with the word  _ PRESS _ outlined across her back now blocked him from progressing any further. 

 

Finally, the mayor came out and the crowd burst into a raucous stream of questions and camera flashes, nearly every hand raising a tape recorder or wielding a video camera.

  
  


The whole affair was hectic, and by the end of it Bill had long since come to the conclusion that every question asked of the mayor would be brushed aside in a manner that was meant to sound as if he's answered it.

 

The guy was clearly a phony.

 

Bryce Harriman had taken fierce notes and, Bill thought self satisfactorily, probably bought into every obfuscation as some sort of given solution. 

 

These thoughts comforted Bill, as he entered a dinky little coffee shop - his favorite for its remoteness - and made his way cockily to the counter.

 

He always made a time of hitting on the baristas - there were three on regular shift that he knew by name(Nora, Margo and Sloane) and a couple other young girls worked there too.

 

For the first time since he'd originally walked into this coffee shop two years back, there was not a woman but a man in the baristas uniform

 

_ A new challenge, _ Bill thought bemusedly.

 

The new barista was speaking in urgent, hushed tones to a man with a manager name tag.

 

The manager looked up when Bill walked in, and the barista followed his gaze to reveal shockingly blue eyes that met Bills with a eerie calm.

 

The man looked back to his manager, who gestured at Bill before turning and going into the back of the store, disappearing from sight.

 

The Barista stared after him a moment, a dark look passing over his face, before he put on a miniscule smile and glided over to the counter.

 

“What can I get for you?” He drawled, the faint aroma of wintergreen settling in his wake.

 

Bill, for the first time in his career as a professional flirter, hesitated with a smart remark on the tip of his tongue.

 

“Um…” He managed smartly, his eyes drifting to the menu so as to tear away from the other man. “Just give me… a large caramel latte, four shots, extra whip.” he dropped his gaze to the counter.

 

The man nodded coolly and rang him up. “Name?” he asked, pulling out a cup and sharpie from behind the counter.

 

“William Smithback.” The writer intoned, confidence returning to his voice. “But you can call me Bill.” He winked flirtatiously.

 

If the Barista heard his comment, he gave no sign as he turned away to make the drink.

 

Despite this, Bill couldn't help his eyes drifting along the man's frame.

 

He was tall - taller than Bill himself - and slender, though from the short-sleeve cut of the uniform Bill could see toned muscles.

 

He was downright  _ hot _ .

 

The man ran a hand through his pale blond hair as he turned to glance back at Smithback, who winked without a second thought.

 

The other man held his gaze for a moment, and Bill thought he saw a hint of amusement in his eyes before he turned back to the Espresso machine.

 

When the blond handed Bill his coffee cup, he nodded his thanks and flashed a charming smile, to which the barista only held his polite smile.

 

Bill settled in at a table in the outside dining area, and pulled his laptop from it's bag.

 

He retrieved his notes and tape recorder from the exuberantly boring press conference, and readied himself for another day-by-day boring piece, stuck within the literary confines of domestic journalism.

  
  


He sat this way for a while, sipping his coffee and listening to recordings, jotting down key phrases.

 

He thought about writing and exposé, headlining something similar to  _ NEW MAYOR FULL OF IT, NOTHING TO BE DONE NOW. _

 

The thought was passively amusing.

 

Still, the writer had no doubt his boss would tear him a new one for putting something so “controversial” out to print.

 

Damned ninny.

 

Still, that article sounded much more appealing than some fake shit about how all their worries were put to rest, and they could all trust in the powers that be to improve the city.

 

He decided to draft that article instead.

 

He worked furiously, thinking that perhaps, if the Chief didn't like it, he could just switch some words around to pacify the mayor's more avid supporters and call it a day.

 

Bill was startled from his thoughts by the sharp ringing tone of his cell.

 

He glanced at it almost passingly, to see it was his source within the mayor's office.

 

_ This oughta be good. _ He thought, almost boredly.

 

He answered the cell. “Go for Smithback,” he intoned lamely.

 

“ _ Bill, you've gotta get down here. People are  _ pissed _ about the press conference today, they're actually picketing town hall! You don't wanna miss this one. _ ” 

 

In a heartbeat Bill was on his feet, shoving his computer into his bag along with all of his notes, draft forgotten at the whiff of such a juicy story. 

 

“I'm on my way. And Starkey?”

 

“ _ Yessir?”  _ he answered dramatically.

 

“When I get there,” Bill was carrying his things out to his car. “I need you to give me a rundown of exactly what happened, from your perspective. How it started, who's involved, everything. Got it?”

 

“ _ Yessuh _ ,” Starkey assured him.

 

Bill hung up, taking a breath as he carefully set the half empty coffee cup into his cup holder, and started the car.


	3. A.X.L. Pendergast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vincent D'agosta meets Bill Smithback.  
> What a scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever so I'm extra, EXTRA sorry that this chapter was pretty short.  
> Like, literally one scene long.  
> But I have some trouble writing Pendergast's perspective, and I'm working on it ^^'  
> Anyway, enjoy!

Since his assignment to the upper East side, Pendergast had been undercover working in a coffee shop for exactly three days. 

 

He'd uncovered nothing about the string of art thefts, and had, on the third day, tried to convince his partner that they should ask for reassignment before being interrupted by a cocky looking young man with a stubborn cowlick and seemingly inflated ego.

 

Had Pendergast not been in such a foul mood, he might have considered the man to be cute.

 

But personal entanglements while undercover were harshly inadvisable either way, and the man had reeked of  _ journalism _ .

 

The last thing Pendergast needed was a journalist getting in the way of his discreet operations.

 

The day before that, Pendergast had been longing faintly for the freedom to leave this shop - he was growing suspicious that the only reason he'd been assigned somewhere with a clock-in sheet was so his captain could keep an eye on him - when an interesting character (a detective, by his ID Pendergast had glimpsed when the man pulled out his wallet) had made a short round of entertaining expressions when Pendergast spoke to him.

 

Now, on the fourth day of his mundane assignment, Pendergast stood idly by the window, gazing out to the horizon.

 

The sun was dipping into the hills when the faint jingle of the door's bell alerted the agent to a patron.

 

He turned to see the detective from two days previous, looking as disheveled and grouchy as he had the last time he'd been in.

 

His irritable physique seemed to dissipate slightly when he met Pendergast's eyes, and ran a hand through his receding hair in an effort to tame it down.

 

Then he approached the counter and gave what Pendergast supposed to be a polite smile. “Large Americano. Hot.” Pendergast nodded, ringing up the drink.

 

He scribbled the name he remembered from the previous visit onto the cup, and brought it to the Espresso machine.

 

As he had the last time the man had come in, he watched in the reflective surface of the window above the machine as the detective gave his body a scan. 

 

Bold.

 

Pendergast turned to hand the man his drink, and the detective hesitated as he took it, as if there were something he wished to say.

 

After a moment of the two looking at each other, each with a hand on the cup of coffee, Vincent's gaze dropped to the name on the cup.

 

A realization seemed to cross his face, and Pendergast thought he saw the slightest hint of red creep up heavily tanned cheeks.

 

The officer took the cup, not meeting Pendergast's eyes, gave his thanks and turned on his heel to leave.

 

Right as he did, however, another man had burst into the store - Pendergast noted it was the same callicked writer from the day before - and the two collided.

 

Hot coffee exploded over both men, as the writer fell to the floor and the detective stumbled backwards.

 

“Jesus  _ Christ- _ ” the detective started before his gaze fell to the man who was quickly trying to stand and compose himself, a goofy grin on his mouth as an apology came through his laughter. 

 

Pendergast couldn't see the detectives face, but his posture went rigid with recognition as he noted the writer. “ _ You _ .” he uttered with distaste. 

 

“Me!” Bill Smithback returned with triumphant enthusiasm. Then his smile faltered. “What about me?” he asked a little more uncertainly.

 

“You're that  _ damned _ reporter from town hall last night. Do you know how close we came to a goddamned riot? And all because some  _ idiot _ blogged an article on the mayor, which-”

 

“My job is to tell the truth, as I see it.” Despite Smithback's cool tone, the agent saw a look of alarm on his face. “I told the people what  _ I _ heard at that press conference, nothing more.”

 

The detective ground his jaw. “Sure, nothing more than a provocative article on the man's supposed  _ incompetence! _ ”

 

“Hey, as a  _ serious journalist _ -”

 

“You gotta stick your nose in  _ everything _ , don't you? What was the name again, Smith? I swear to God, if I have to see you at one more sensitive scene, inciting panic-”

 

“Gentlemen,” Pendergast cut in, noting the sparse patrons occupying the shop watching the scene intently.

 

Both turned to look at him, and Bill flushed a pale crimson.

 

“If you do not wish to have an audience, you both might be better suited taking your disagreement outside, don't you think?” 

 

Both men hesitated, before simultaneously muttering about how it was silly and apologizing half-heartedly.

 

Smithback walked up to the counter and grabbed a handful of napkins, smiling sheepishly to the barista, before handing half the stack to the detective.

 

Vincent glared, but took the napkins with an uttered thanks to the writer and began to clean himself off.

 

As both men wiped coffee from their clothes, the other patrons lost interest and turned back to their own occupations.

 

Vincent checked his watch and swore under his breath.

 

He picked up the cup that had fallen to the floor, as Pendergast grabbed the mop bucket and wet floor sign and set both down by the spill, before returning behind the counter to take the order of the waiting Bill Smithback. 

 

The writer flashed him a charming smile, and repeated his order from the day before and Pendergast rang him up.

 

“Name on that's gonna be Bill.” He winked without subtlety at the agent, who had already been marking the name on the cup.

 

He set the cup aside, as Vincent made his way back up to the counter, still muttering under his breath with irritation.

 

“Sorry about that. I know about the least considerate damn thing someone can do is start a ruckus where people are  _ working _ ,” Vincent cast a last scornful look at Smithback, before turning back the agent with a cheeky smile rather becoming. “Get me another Americano. Hot and large…” he looked like he might say something else, but simply took out his wallet to pay.

 

Pendergast rang him up and marked the name on the cup. Adding, if only for his own amusement, the words  _ hot and large. _

 

With two sharp underlines 

 

Once his drink was mixed, Vincent left the shop in rather a hurry, muttering about being late under his breath.

 

Smithback accepted his drink with a flirtatious bite of his lip, and then went outside to the small dining deck within view of the counter through a bay window, and set up his laptop, spreading his work over the wire framed table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yea  
> They aren't buddies  
>  _Yet_  
>  Thank you for reading! If you had fun, leave a comment letting me know!   
> OR if you think I'm doing my whole life wrong, you can let me know that in the comments too.


	4. Vincent D'agosta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'agosta makes it to work, where no one appreciates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooop one right on the heels of another? Will they ever write predictably?  
> WHO KNOWS  
> I'm really sorry guys. I don't know what's wrong with me.

After the disaster that had been his attempt at going back to talk to the cute barista, Vincent was now both damp and late.

 

He had nearly lost his mind on that reporter - the previous nights disaster and the subsequent abrasive and reprimansive confrontation with the Captain just hours previous leaving him irritable and sleep deprived - and he was bitterly aware of the sort of impression he'd now have left on the cute barista.

 

He rolled the cigar aggressively in his teeth as he pulled into the precinct drive, to his parking spot.

 

He sat there for a moment, the harsh taste of tobacco combined with the tiresome press of his palms into the steering wheel almost enough to distract him from the feral irritation buzzing incessantly in the back of his skull. 

 

He took one deep breath, then another.

 

With no particular urgency, he hefted the dense metal door open, stepped out onto the steamy asphalt, feeling the heat of the midday sun resonate through his boots.

 

He lackadaisically tossed the door shut, and plucked the cigar from his mouth to spit the mouthpiece to the sidewalk and fish the lighter out of his pocket.

 

He hesitated a moment, and then sauntered towards the front of the office and lit the cigar as he walked, replacing the lighter in his pocket as he pried open the bulky glass double doors and made his triumphant entrance.

 

Only the secretary looked up, and he continued without incident to his office.

 

Once in his office, his immediate attention was drawn to the flashing red light on his office phone. 

 

_ Shit _ . He'd run late to his ‘tele-conference’ with the Captain and Deputy Chief.

 

He took a long, thoughtful drag off of his cigar, before sullenly pressing the play button on his voicemail machine.

 

“ _ D'agosta, you slovenly curd! The Deputy Chief waited around TWENTY MINUTES for your sorry ass, before deciding she had better things to do with her time than stand around, catering to some self aggrandizing cop who watches too many  _ goddamn  _ spy movies! I hope you didn't really want to head up this investigation D'agosta, because you just BLEW IT!” _

 

The machine clicked, signaling the end of the message.

 

D'agosta ran a hand through his hair, muttering irritably behind his desk.

 

Twenty minutes. 

 

Coffee spill or no, he still would have been late.

 

The detective heaved a great sigh, stretched in his office chair, and took a thoughtful drag off of his cigar.

 

No damn promotion was worth putting up with the Captain for any longer or more privately than he had to already anyway.

 

He shook his head, before tamping out the cigar and reluctantly picking up his office phone.

 

_ Better get out in front of this, _ he thought.

 

He dialed the Captain's extension, and waited.

 

When the tone sounded to the Captain picking up, the only initial sound was labored breathing on the other end of the line. 

 

D'agosta was about to speak when the Captain finally started.

 

_ “I need you to understand something kid.” _ His tone did not reflect the affectionate phrasing.  _ “This case is big. Bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than this  _ precinct _. Nobody is gonna wait on your ass anymore! I don't know what kind of big-shot you think you are, or what fantastical dreams you have, and frankly I don't care. Blowing off that meeting like that? That's little league  _ shit _ , D'agosta! This is a serious case - a national string of high-profile art thefts, not some day case they'll hand off to the black-and-whites! You want involvement? Act like it!” _

 

Vincent paused, considering his response carefully. “I understand this is a big case. A huge case, Sir. I was caught up in something during the meeting, and for that I apologize. But I really do want to be involved, and I swear it won't happen again.” He felt a smug satisfaction at his own maturity of response. 

 

The captain wasn't impressed.  _ “You say that every  _ damn _ time, D'agosta! ‘I under _ stand _ ’, but you clearly  _ don't  _ understand, or else you'd pull your head out of your ass and make shit  _ happen _ for yourself! You're a fool if you keep hopin’ to get ahead by acting like people work off of  _ your _ schedule. It ain't about you!” _

 

The line went dead.

 

Vincent replaced the phone on it’s receiver and relit his cigar with great effort. 

 

God, he put so much into this damn job, you'd think he'd have earned some recognition.

 

Respect, even.

 

Vincent turned his coffee cup slowly in his hands, and then noticed writing he hadn't seen before. In bold sharpie, the words  _ Hot and large _ were double underlined, glaring at him like so obvious a ploy he'd been an idiot not to notice before.

 

Vincent felt a strange sort of satisfaction at the words; an unbecoming vindication.

 

If nothing else, perhaps he hadn't screwed that up as badly as he'd thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I know how slow-going this has been, but it's all coming up for ya in the next few chapters. Promise it won't get any slower - although publication-wise I make no such shortsighted claims ^^'


	5. William Smithback Junior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill navigates the social reciprocity of his actions, boldly in that way only he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is a lil short but here's some advancement of plot ^^

Bill sipped his coffee thoughtfully, as he considered the work before him.

 

He felt strangely guilty, reviewing the testimony of the officials in the town hall, the image of that detective’s angry, coffee soaked form ever-present in his mind. He really hadn't meant to start anything last night - Sure, he'd prodded with speculation, but this stupid museum thing was the only interesting thing happening around town.

 

Bill opened up a blank word document, and stared at the empty space.

 

The breeze stirred the reporter’s hair, threatening the slow but certain descent from summer to fall. 

 

Distractedly, he gazed out over the empty veranda, slowly worked his gaze along to the window and looked to the counter to see the blond barista, wiping the counter, facing the bay window before the reporter.

 

By all appearances, the blond was totally oblivious to Bill’s vantage point.

 

Good to know.

 

He looked back to his laptop screen, tapping the pencil against his temple contemplatively.

 

It was wickedly hard to focus now that he’d noted the pale silhouette in the corner of his vision - not that Bill ever needed a valid excuse to procrastinate something he didn’t want to do.

 

The journalist turned the paper cup in his hands, his gaze glancing over the name sharpied on.

 

Huh.

 

That was odd.

 

He looked closer at the cup, and noted that beside the word  _ Bill _ in a cutesy script was a doodle of a winky face.

 

_ Sly bastard. _ Bill thought. This little mark was perfectly reminiscent of Bills own advances, and had been produced remarkably fast.

 

This fellow might be an interesting player indeed.

 

He stood, closing his laptop and lackadaisically stuffing it and his notes back into his saddle bag.

 

He slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed the evidentiary cup, and casually strolled up to the door and pulled it open.

 

A quick scan of the cafe found it mostly deserted, only a couple scattered patrons in quiet corners remained.

 

The barista looked up at him when he entered, and Bill cast a charming smile in return as he made his way to the counter.

 

The barista merely raised an eyebrow, and Bill set the cup quietly but pointedly on the counter.

 

“How may I help you?” The man said in a honeysweet voice.

 

Bill was slightly taken aback by the tone, but recovered quickly. “Well, if you’re gonna be doodling on my cups every time I come in here, next time throw ten extra digits in there for me?”

 

The man now raised both his eyebrows, standing up straighter as his expression became unreadable. “Very direct. And an undoubtedly entertaining scenario.”

 

Bill waited, wondering if the man was to say more.

 

Was that it? That wasn’t an answer.

 

Bill blinked, standing a little straighter himself. “I suppose we’ll just have to see.” The reporter winked and turned deliberately towards the door, starting his departure.

 

“We certainly will, Mr. Smithback.” The man called behind him.

 

Bill settled into the seat of his car with his mind still trying to translate the interaction he’d had.

 

Had the man been trying to politely curb Bill’s advances? His instincts told him he was interested - body language, tone and all that, but the way he’d spoken was confusing and slightly off-putting.

 

It occurred to him that the man could have simply been speaking in a dialect unfamiliar to him, and it was a translation issue. But the words had seemed pretty obviously to point to a red light, even if his mannerisms had differed.

 

Somewhere in his head at this thought, a red buzzer went off.  _ That _ was where people got into trouble; he was projecting. He needed to back off, as long as the man’s words suggested it.

 

With that resolution, he started the engine and backed out of the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going places homies lets GIT IT


End file.
